Someone hand me the flea powder
by Mez
Summary: Plutarkians and gas shortages are not the worst things on Earth for our furry heroes.


Pre-reading babble: You can blame Kelly for this one. We were chatting about parasites on MSN and she asked if the bro's could get fleas...well of course they could.… The story is as rough as guts because I typed it straight in here without editing, so my apologies. And it's short, too. Note the massive pandering to Throttle fans here - I couldn't resist.

Disclaimer: Not mine, not mine.

**Someone hand me the flea powder**

  
by Mez. 

(Early in BMFM canon, not long after the bro's came to Earth...)

Charley was up to her elbows in a faulty gearbox when she heard the roar of her favourite bike engines approaching. She reached over with one foot and kicked the button to open the garage doors. The three mice were slowly learning to use the door, but sometimes they forgot, especially when they were excited. The three bikes roared in and screeched to a halt, tyres smoking. That was something else she was getting used to, the smell of burnt rubber. No amount of reasoning could get them to slow down on the heavy braking to preserve the life of their tyres. Brakes...that was something else she needed to check. Charley sighed. These mice cost a fortune in parts.

"Morning, Charley ma'am!" cried Modo happily. She smiled, the big grey sweetie was always polite. Vinnie, the white devil, was eyeing her again but she ignored him.

"Hey, Charley-girl, how's the best mechanic in chi-town?" said Throttle huskily, taking off his helmet and shaking out his tan hair in a way that made her insides wobble.

"Morning, guys," said Charley, smiling. "I'll be with you in a minute, just got to finish this gearbox. There's cold root beer in the fridge...."

The three mice stampeded into the kitchen before she could finish the sentence. Charley sighed again. Well, at least they never dawdled.

Charley was so involved in the repairs that she heard none of the conversation, except for lots of laughter and shouting. She paid little heed however, until a sharp "woof!" came from the kitchen. She was so startled she bumped her head on the bonnet.

"Ouch!" Rubbing her scalp, she moved to the kitchen, wiping the grease off her hands with a rag. She stopped in the doorway when she saw the scene in the kitchen. The three mice were sitting around the table, drinking root beer and eating hotdogs. Sitting on Modo's lap, with it's paws on his chest, was a small black and tan puppy of impossible parentage. The puppy was yapping happily and trying to lick Modo's face.

"Where on earth did you find him?" said Charley, astonished.

"Aw, he was nosin' around the bins at Quigley Field. Poor little mite looked all hungry, so we brought him over."

"Really? I didn't see him come in."

"Had him in my vest," said Throttle smokily. "Didn't want him to get cold or fall off."

"_Lucky puppy_," thought Charley.

Charley watched, amazed, as the three boys played with the puppy, who happily joined in with wrestling games, chasing games and other macho mouse entertainment. She shook her head.

*****

Over the next few days Charley saw the puppy whenever her martian friends turned up. In a fit of originality they named him "Pup", though Vinnie had fought long and hard for "Stoker". It wasn't until a week later that Charley noticed that the three mice were scratching. A lot.

"What's wrong with you?" she asked.

"Beats me, Charley girl. You don't have sand-bugs down here, do you?" joked Throttle.

"No, of course not...oh my," said Charley suddenly, as realisation dawned.

"Pup! Pup! Here, boy!" she called. Pup dashed over, tail wagging madly. Charley picked him up and sat down on the couch. She turned him over and, sure enough, there were masses of fleas crawling across his belly.

"Guys! You've got fleas! Didn't you check him over when you picked him up?"

"What are 'fleas', Charley ma'am?" said Modo.

"They're a parasite, they get onto your skin and..."

"A PARASITE? Oh, yuck!" they shouted.

"Oh, this is too gross!" wailed Vinnie, brushing off his fur.

"Are you sure, Charley?" said Throttle. He didn't look happy.

"Well, I could check, but I'm pretty sure." said Charley.

"How do you check?" asked Throttle. Charley looked at the tan fur over massive pectorals, and contemplated dragging her hand through the fur over that muscular stomach.

"Uh, nevermind." she said, chickening out. "We'll just assume you have them."

"Well, how do we get rid of them?

*****

Charley looked at the three aghast mice. "What, you've never taken a bath before?" she joked.

"Well, yeah," said Throttle, "when absolutely necessary...every few months or so..."

"Uh," said Modo, "usually when Momma won't let us in the house no more..."

"Oh yeah, all the time. You have no idea how hard it is to keep this stuff clean." Vinnie said, proudly stroking the white fur. He looked up when he realised everyone was looking at him.

"What?"

"Are you sure you're a mouse, bro?"

*****

Throttle looked at the tub full of water, and wrinkled his nose. Yuck, yuck, nothing worse than wet fur. He picked up the bottle of stuff Charley had told him to add. It stunk. Really, really stunk. Oh, this bit, big time. Throttle sighed. As usual, it was up to him, the leader, to, well, lead the way. Vinnie, who was so keen on bathing, had gone right off the idea when Charley had shown them what they'd have to bathe IN. And Modo had flatly refused, even when they'd threatened to make him sleep in the infield. Throttle emptied the required dose into the tub, wrinkling his muzzle and snorting. Sighing, he pulled off his vest and pants and dropped them into the basket Charley had provided. They had to be washed, too, apparently. Naked, he stepped into the steaming water. Oh, man, this really, really bit. Big time.

*****

Charley looked at the three mice sitting on her couch, and one dejected and very clean pup lying next to Modo's feet. All four had the same hangdog expression, and Charley had to bite her cheeks hard not to laugh out loud. Getting Modo into the tub had been the funniest thing she'd seen in years. Well, heard anyway. Throttle and Vinnie, already flea-treated and towel-clad, had dragged him upstairs and dumped him in the tub. Her bathroom looked like ground zero, but at least the fleas were gone. Their clothes were in the wash, something else none of them had been really thrilled about.

"Man," said Modo, "that was the worst experience of my life."

"Really?" said Charley.

"You remember the time we were caught up on Mt Olympus, outnumbered 5 to 1 and out of ammo?" said Modo.

"Yeah," chorused Throttle and Vinnie.

"Well, it was worse than that."

"Oh, really?" squeaked Charley, and bit her cheeks again.

"You remember that time at Brimstone when we though the army was comin' and they didn't show and it was just us against a plutarkian command unit?" said Throttle.

"Yeah," chorused Modo and Vinnie.

"Well, it was worse than that."

"Uh-huh," said Charley breathlessly.

"You remember that time, way back when, we were supposed to be watching the pass behind the crater for our supply train and we ended up having a drag race and the train got attacked and we lost that months supplies and Stoker flogged our tails round the base?"

"Yeah," chorused Throttle and Modo.

"Well, it was worse than that." said Vinnie.

Throttle looked up. "Are you sure? Because I remember that being pretty bad."

"Yeah, me too," said Modo.

"Well, maybe not that bad, but it was close." said Vinnie.

Throttle and Modo nodded their heads gloomily.

"Yeah."

The end.


End file.
